Up in the foothills of the Patagonia Mountains (southern Arizona) with Phil Caputo, his setter, Sage, and my Rose. We’re finding a fair number of Gambels and Mearns, but the going is rough as we cross many arroyos laterally, following covey flushes. For some reason I think of what’s going to happen before it happens. My friend Nick Reens, the best bird hunter I know, says that if you’re going to get lost it will likely happen when the hunting is good and you’re not paying attention to the landscape and it’s time to turn around. I have a fairly good visual on where our vehicle is to the northeast, and I try to guide us on a possible shortcut, but within a half hour I see it’s not going to work. Now I opt to head south for our casita, our little house on the creek, partly because it’s downhill and I judge we are equidistant from both house and vehicle. Suddenly, it’s nearly dark and I hear Rose’s beeper. She’s on point, but it’s too dark to see her as the birds flush. It looks like we’re going to spend the night where we are.